


Thirst

by orphan_account



Series: Mutation [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mutants, Gen, Identity Issues, M/M, Mutant Powers, Non-Consensual Kissing, Shapeshifting, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas Hickey, in Charles' humble opinion, is a stain on the human race. How dare he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirst

 

Thomas Hickey is many things. A cunning man, an powerful mutant, a brilliant actor (power aside) and an alcoholic. 

 

He is also extremely annoying, at least in Charles' humble opinion. Actually, Charles harbours more intense feelings about Thomas, mostly revolving around the phrase "piece of shit", but 'extremely annoying' is how he describes Hickey to Master Kenway. He does not want to upset, demean or cause the man unnecessary worry in any way. He has too much to to as it is, too much to worry about, too much to contemplate and plan.

 

Charles is quiet in his distaste for Thomas Hickey, though he does allow himself a few scathing looks and snarky comments at particularly idiotic comments. All in all, he feels he restrains himself quite well. 

 

When he wraps his hands around Hickey's throat and squeezes, screaming inarticulately, trying to brain that bastard for his-- for what he's done, he feels he's being rather merciful. It is only when strong hands wrap around his limbs and tear him away that he realises just what this might look like to an outsider. To Master Kenway.

 

"Charles! Charles, stop!" Master Kenway's voice is distant, and it's only when he is forced backward by strength that can only be Pitcairn that he stops screaming and struggling and tries to compose himself. Hickey slides down the wall, shifting back to his own features, gasping for breath.

 

"What the bloody hell was that about?" Master Kenway demands, to both of them. Pitcairn continues to hold Charles against the floor, just in case, and Church starts to treat Hickey's wounds (a broken nose, minor abrasions to his face, bruised throat). 

 

"Just a joke, sir," Hickey mutters. "That was all."

 

"A joke? What kind of a joke would lead to _this_?" Master Kenway spits, out of ire and confusion more than anything. 

 

"A joke in bad taste," Charles manages, voice shaking. "Very bad taste."

 

"Oh?" Master Kenway looks even more irritated, even more perplexed. He turns the full force of his anger on Hickey. "You used my face for a bad joke, did you, Hickey?"

 

"It won't happen again," Hickey wheezes. "'M sorry."

 

"You're damned right, it won't," Master Kenway snaps. "What exactly did you do to Charles?"

 

Charles thinks his stomach drops entirely out of his abdomen, his blood freezes in his veins. 

 

No, no. Master Kenway _can't_ know. Oh, God, no.

 

"It doesn't matter," he says, a little too quickly. "Hickey's learnt his lesson."

 

Master Kenway glances back at him in the way he knows means that he doesn't believe Charles for a minute, and he's going to Make Enquiries in that very regal, very brutal way of his.

 

"All right," he says, eventually. "Pitcairn, why don't you take Charles outside? I daresay you both could do with a drink. We'll reconvene tomorrow, same time as we did today. This meeting has taken a bit of a turn for the worst."

 

Charles lowers his head and allows himself to be lead away from Thomas Hickey (that bastard). His eyes are prickly and his face feels hot, so he excuses himself as soon as he can and waits in an alleyway nearby until his breath stops shuddering and he can see clearly again.

 

Damn Hickey. Damn his brilliant acting and his borrowed clothes. Damn his sharp sight and his keen observation skills and his brilliant deductions which were oh-so- _fucking_ right.

 

His mouth-- no, his mouth _shaped into_ Master Kenway's-- had been so soft. He'd tasted of wine, and his accent had been flawless. He'd even mastered Master Kenway's eyebrow tilt and his overly formal posture and that little squint the Grand Master did on occasion. He'd smelt right and felt right, and even the way he'd tied his hair had been perfect. 

 

Charles hadn't suspected a thing. No, not a thing until Hickey's hand was caressing _just_ right at the place his cock was stirring slowly but surely to life, and Charles had just started to really get into the kiss, to tangle his fingers in those beautiful chestnut locks. Then Hickey had broken the illusion, his voice his own, breathy and mocking, hand suddenly squeezing hard enough to be uncomfortable.

 

"Ooh, Mister Lee, wot do we 'ave 'ere?"

 

Charles stands, and looks despondently at the various animals that have crowded into the alley to comfort him. He doesn't know whether to be pleased or annoyed at this particular aspect of his power. He pets a few of the larger dogs, throws a few crumbs down for the fowl, and wipes his eyes. 

 

"Shoo," he says. "You ought to go back to your owners."

 

The animals do, but not without a fair bit of grumbling.

 

The next day, Charles does not fail to notice that Master Kenway cannot seem to look him directly in the eyes.

 

Damn Hickey.

 

Damn him, and everything about him. Damn him to hell.


End file.
